


take this sinking boat and point it home

by whooves



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, Kissing, M/M, a bit of pining from both ends, frustratedjolras, stupid revolutionaries being stupid, that's the important part here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 13:31:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whooves/pseuds/whooves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is not drunk.</p><p>Grantaire’s head is <em>spinning</em>, and his skin feels like it is on <em>fire</em>, but Grantaire is <em>not drunk</em>. It is only a reaction to those three square inches where Enjolras’s pajama-clad knee presses against his bare one as they sit on the floor designing posters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take this sinking boat and point it home

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write kissing.
> 
> Edited by [Abby](http://vivelarepublique.tumblr.com), who saves my life on a daily basis, when it comes to the things I write.

Grantaire is not drunk.

Grantaire’s head is _spinning_ , and his skin feels like it is on _fire_ , but Grantaire is _not drunk_. It is only a reaction to those three square inches where Enjolras’s pajama-clad knee presses against his bare one as they sit on the floor designing posters.

Grantaire is not fucking stupid, he is not going to drink himself into oblivion when Enjolras has asked them over to do an Important Thing. It is just Jehan, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Enjolras, and Grantaire at this point; Combeferre and Jehan dictate, Grantaire draws, Courfeyrac colors, and Enjolras oversees. Their conversations are stilted, and confined to possible slogans for the upcoming rally, ideas on how to catch as many eyes as possible with their posters.

After they have their words straightened out, Jehan and Combeferre elect to leave. As Jehan is Courfeyrac’s ride, he departs at well. _Fucking traitor_ , Grantaire thinks aggressively in his direction as he walks out the door, waggling his eyebrows. To his own displeasure, Grantaire does not manage to strike Courfeyrac dead with laser vision. Jehan shoots him a text about five minutes later:

_You’re welcome! :) :)_

_xoxo - J_

To which Grantaire responds:

_Fuck you._

_-R._

And he should really work on how much he curses, but Enjolras is mere feet away, and they have been sitting on the ground with their knees pressed together for an hour now and he really cannot be arsed to do anything except draw and try to ignore the nasty way his leg has fallen asleep because there is absolutely no way he is going to move.

“That looks nice,” Enjolras mutters, with his brow furrowed as he admires Grantaire’s designs on the paper. His phone is clutched tightly in both of his hands, furiously texting someone on and off, and Grantaire heaves a big sigh.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he says dryly. Enjolras leans over to get a better look, pushing his knee over Grantaire’s as he does so. This is about the point where Grantaire decides Enjolras is actually trying to kill him because when he leans back he just _leaves his knee there_. Grantaire stops drawing and looks up at him.

“Are you joking?” he asks in a strangled voice, and Enjolras looks confused.

“About what? Your designs being good?” Enjolas’s frown is even more prominent now. Grantaire wants to smooth out his brow with his fingers and turn up the corners of his mouth, but he cannot let his hands stop their graceful arcs on the paper; he has to sketch something, do anything to keep his hands busy.

“Nevermind,” Grantaire says quickly, and puts his pen down after signing a quick _R_ in the corner of the page. “Done,” he says, and _shit_. What is he supposed to do with his hands now?

Enjolras smooths his fingers down the edge of Grantaire’s concept drawing for the poster and smiles. Grantaire reflexively smiles as well.

“I like this,” Enjolras says.

“Well, it is, um, the design you asked for.” Enjolras blinks at Grantaire’s response and sticks out his lower lip just a bit.

“No, R, I meant this.” He gestures at the ground. For the life of him, Grantaire cannot figure out what is going on. He raises his eyebrows.

“Sorry Apollo, you are going to have to elaborate for me.” Enjolras frowns. Grantaire half-wishes he was drunk right now; the other half is too absorbed in Enjolras’s loose blonde curls and how his v-neck dips just slightly to show his pale chest. Enjolras picks up one of Grantaire’s hands, and starts tracing one of his calloused fingertips with his own slender fingers.

Scratch that half-wish thing, Grantaire needs to be drunk _now_.

“Um,” is the only response he can force out.

“This,” Enjolras clarifies. “I like it when we don’t fight.” And okay, this is something that Grantaire can handle. He closes his hand into a fist and rolls his eyes.

“Well, Apollo, that takes two, doesn’t it?” and Enjolras looks like someone slapped him in the face. It is clearly not the answer he was expecting. _Is this not a fight, this thing that is happening?_

“I am trying to-” he cuts himself off and flushes, looking down at his own lap. He shifts so they are no longer pressing against each other, and Grantaire’s knee suddenly feels very cold. “Combeferre said this should be easy,” he mutters. “Let me try again.” He pauses, and Grantaire waits. “I enjoy when you are sober enough to-” Grantaire cuts him off and stands.

“No, you can stop there. I do not need you to lecture me on how much more I could be or what I could do if only I applied myself and _‘Put the bottle down, Grantaire!’_ ” he goes high-pitched for the last few words, mimicking Enjolras and not watching what he does, so it takes him completely by surprise when Enjolras stands and stills him with both of his hands on Grantaire’s elbows.

Enjolras makes a frustrated noise and then notices Grantaire’s frozen stance. He takes his hands off Grantaire’s elbows and hook downs, embarrassed.

“ _Stop_. That is not what I,” he starts, and sighs. He tries again. “I don’t know how to,” he pauses and frowns. “Can you just stay very still for me?” Grantaire widens his eyes in confusion, but does not argue, only nods.

Enjolras puts one hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, and lets the other one dangle near his hip, not quite gripping, just lightly brushing. He leans in very very close and _why is Enjolras’s face so near to his_ and he can feel his breath on his lips and he only has a split-second before he realizes what is actually happening and then absolutely _melts_.

Enjolras’s mouth is warm against his own and he shudders and tries to remain still as Enjolras had said, but he cannot help the way one arm curls around Enjolras’s back and the other comes up to slide against his neck. It is imperfect, surprising, and just a bit awkward with Enjolras’s still hesitant touches. But Grantaire certainly is not going to complain with Enjolras in front of him touching him like Grantaire is the one who might break, who might step away and refuse. And after much too-short a time for Grantaire to become properly acquainted with Enjolras’s lips, he pulls away.

“Does that,” Enjolras says. He frowns more _and it should be against the fucking law for him to make that face_ with his lips red and his mouth slightly parted. “Is that,” he makes another frustrated noise. Grantaire laughs.

“At a loss for words, Apollo?” he whispers, still only inches from his lips. His heart is doing something funny in his chest - swooping maybe, or dropping to his stomach. He would not be surprised if it has left his body entirely.

“You are infuriating,” Enjolras says. “I hadn’t really meant to do that yet.” He looks displeased.

“Stop frowning!” Grantaire is smiling now, laughing, and he thinks his face might split might-

“I was trying to be nice and you just-” Grantaire cuts him off here, because he does not need to hear his own folly out of Enjolras’s mouth; he has already lived it.

“Forgive me, Enjolras. I did not think you would-” and now it is Enjolras’s turn to cut Grantaire off.

“That I would reciprocate?” Grantaire flushes. Enjolras’s features school themselves into something resembling a smile, but immediately flicker, doubt flitting across his features. “Unless I have been mistaken, and you...” Grantaire blinks, and tightens his arm around Enjolras’s back as he begins to move away.

“No, no,” Grantaire is breathless and light and happy and feels about to burst from all of it. He smiles, and his lips curl into somewhat of a smirk. He spends a moment grinning before he collects his errant thoughts. “I made you flustered.” Enjolras blushes faintly, and tries to deny.

“No, I simply-” Grantaire, in good conscience, cannot let him finish his sentence without kissing him. His hands move up to frame Enjolras’s face, and he licks a slow line at the seam of his lips. Enjolras makes a noise against Grantaire’s mouth, but opens underneath him and his hands are gripping at his hips, and it is easily the best thing that has happened to Grantaire all year.

Nothing: no whiskey, no wine, no expensive top-shelf vodka could have prepared Grantaire for the giddiness he feels with Enjolras’s tongue tracing his lower lip, his teeth nipping and hands warm at his sides.

When they break apart, Grantaire rests his forehead against Enjolras’s for just a moment. Enjolras takes advantage of the close proximity to twine his arms around Grantaire's neck.

“That turned out better than I had expected,” Enjolras says in a breath.

“What did you expect?” Grantaire asks the neckline of Enjolras’s shirt as he wraps his arms around his waist.

“I expected you to leave, perhaps, because I could not articulate what I wanted.”

“Oh, Apollo,” Grantaire sighs happily. “I’m not going _anywhere_.”


End file.
